


Castaways

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Maybe UST?, S1 alternate ending, Some pining, Stranded, URT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-24 16:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14359167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: S1 Alternate Ending: The med pod floats. Floats them right up onto a beach. A beach on a deserted island.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me if my Harry Potter reference is too niche ;)

Jemma woke with a groan. Something was prodding into her lower back and she ached all over, worse even than after her failed field assessment. And it was so bright in her bunk – had she forgotten to close the window flap last night?

But it wasn’t only bright, it was _warm_. It was rather lovely, now that she really felt the sun on her face. Maybe she could stay here a moment longer, she thought, eyes still closed, rolling onto her side and off of whatever had been poking her. Coulson would come find her when it was time for the morning briefing.

On cue, something stepped in the way of her sunpatch and threw a shadow over her face.

Blinking blearily, Jemma finally opened her eyes, expecting to see they’d flown into a storm.

But she wasn’t in her bunk.

She wasn’t on the Bus at all.

She was in the med pod, which, now that she was slightly more awake, she remembered running into with Fitz.

“Fitz!” she gasped, sitting up with a start.

“Didn’t want to wake you.” He was there, in the doorway of the pod, his left arm in a sling. “You looked quite peaceful.”

“What—” She looked around at all the supplies, scattered around the pod, and the bit of the blindingly sunny space beyond Fitz. “What happened? Where are we?”

“Well,” Fitz started, with the deep breath and creased forehead of someone slightly nervous about how their news will be received, “we floated. First, I guess, we fell. Fast and far. Broke my arm on the way,” he added, nodding down to the sling. “Same place as in the second grade. So that’s…interesting.”

Jemma rose gingerly to her feet. The movement made the back of her head throb. “I must’ve been knocked out on the way down,” she said, touching the spot carefully. “You were conscious the whole time?”

“Yeah.” Fitz’s lips tightened. “Can’t say I enjoyed it.”

“That must’ve been terrifying, Fitz, I’m sorry. At least we floated! Could’ve been much worse.”

“Uh – before you go too far down that train of positive thought, maybe I should answer your question of _where_ we are.” And he stepped out the door of the pod.

Jemma followed him, shielding her eyes against the sun – no excruciating pain from the light, though, so likely no concussion – and stepped straight into water.

“Oh!” She stumbled a bit, surprised, and caught herself on Fitz’s uninjured shoulder. “What the—”

The med pod had floated, all right. Had floated them right up into the shallows of a beach. And beyond that –

 

“Oh, dear,” Jemma said slowly. She looked left – sand stretching into the distance. To the right, the same. Ahead: more sand, and then patchy grass and stands of coconut trees.

“Yep.”

“Uninhabited?”

“I didn’t want to walk too far and leave you here, ‘case the pod started drifting. But from what I can tell… totally uninhabited.” He glanced down at her, his nose already gone pink from the sun. “Not to go all Hermione on you, but I guess that makes your ‘at least we floated’ a bit like Ron’s ‘lucky this plant thing’s here, really’.”

“Oh, so you’d rather we’d have _sunk to the bottom of the ocean_ than be on this—” Jemma glanced at the island. “This – _paradise_ , frankly?”

“We could’ve floated somewhere with _shade_ , or take-out,” Fitz grumbled.

Jemma gritted her teeth but – with a great effort – didn’t roll her eyes. “Well,” she said breezily, with forced cheerfulness, “no use wasting our energy squabbling. We should get started getting the lay of the land. From the curve of this beach I’d say the island can’t be more than…” She squinted, running a quick mental calculation. “5 kilometers in diameter.”

“4.83,” Fitz corrected.

She gave him a look. “I was rounding up.”

“That .17 difference could be important,” he muttered.

“Anyway, it’s small enough that we can probably rule out significant surprises in terms of human or animal inhabitants or geographical features. We should still survey it, of course, to know what’s out there and to look for food and fresh water. We’ll need shelter or we’ll both be crispy before nightfall. I’ll check in the med kits for sun lotion, though I doubt that’s standard issue in SHIELD med pods –”

“Shouldn’t we be trying to get _off_ the island, not settling in?” Fitz interrupted her, scratching at the sling strap where it rubbed his neck. “I’m not made for a life in the tropics.”

“I’m sure they’re looking for us—”

“What if we were dropped over the Bermuda Triangle?” He gaped at her without a trace of irony. “We could’ve been pulled into some alternate dimension of the drowned and doomed. We could be stuck here forever, and you want to play house—”

“Ugh, _Fitz_!” Jemma burst out, flinging her hands up desperately between them. “Stop being so _childish!_ You think I want to be here? You think I want to be trapped on this stupid strip of sand with _you_?”

“Thanks very much,” Fitz snapped, but with the way he dipped his head to examine his broken arm, she knew he actually felt stung.

Taking a steadying breath and praying to Poseidon for calm tides and patience, Jemma continued softly, “Fitz, you know what I mean. This isn’t ideal. Obviously I want to get off this island as much as you do. Statistically, in modern times castaways are rescued in a matter of days, even hours. But we have to be _alive_ to be rescued. Let’s focus on that for now, and when we’re all set up we can work on helping our rescuers. Okay? Can you do that with me?”

Fitz bit his thumbnail, watching the waves hit their ankles for a moment before he nodded. When he looked up at her, his smile was back and he rubbed her arm reassuringly. “Of course, Simmons. You’re right. ‘Course you’re right, you always did have a level head in a crisis.”

“Except that time I shot Agent Sitwell,” Jemma winced, and they both laughed. She felt loads better already, having Fitz’s spirits back up a bit.

“Yeah. Except that.”

They decided that, seeing as Fitz only had one arm to work with, he wouldn’t be much help for the physical preparations, so he headed up the small dune and into the coconut trees in search of food and water. Jemma watched him go a moment longer than necessary. He really was the best person to have in a situation like this, she thought fondly. Certainly he was a bit prone to panic when he initially found himself in peril, but once he’d gotten over that, he was dependable and helpful and patient. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the way he’d helped her, at risk to himself, when she’d been infected with the Chitauri virus.

Some characteristics were more important than passing a field assessment, both in a friend and a SHIELD agent.

It took her nearly forty minutes, but with the help of the waves and some (rather clever, if she said so herself) manipulation with branches she found under the nearest coconut trees, she managed to haul the med pod up on the sand and out of the reach of the tide. Barring a monsoon, it would serve as an ideal shelter from both heat and rain. There was only one cot, but the emergency stretcher could do in a pinch, and they could take turns. Hopefully it wouldn’t be more than a night or two before they were back to normal beds.

She sorted all the materials, finding exactly one package of field rations. She categorized the medical supplies so they’d be easy to reach and sorted out anything that might help them hunt, cook, or signal for help. By that time Fitz still hadn’t returned, so she started rigging together some leaves, branches, string and various bits and bobs from the medical supplies to form a makeshift fishing pole. Of course, they wouldn’t catch anything unless they had bait, which would require food, which was already in short supply. But one step at a time, as long as it took them in the right direction.

Fitz returned just as she’d begun wondering whether she should worry about him. He’d removed his shoes and walked barefoot across the sand towards her, burnt skin rosy in the glow of the sunset.

“I'd have made an abysmal hunter-gatherer,” he sighed, throwing his shoes down and flopping down next to her in front of the medpod. “Wish there were monkeys on this island. They would lead us to the fresh water and mangos.”

“You don’t care about the mangos, you just want the monkeys,” Jemma chortled.

Fitz shrugged, and smiled, and leaned over to bump their shoulders together, and for a moment, seeing how his curls shone around their edges, Jemma forgot their predicament.

They shared part of the field rations for supper, reserving most of it to use for bait. Jemma doubted fish would nibble on whatever freeze-dried excuse for a protein bar SHIELD had thought to include, but for now it was all they had.

“Do you think it’s desert or deserted?” she mused, letting the so-called food melt on her tongue to make it last longer.

Fitz was frowning at his portion, holding it nearly up to his eyeball. “Hmm?”

“When people talk about being stranded, are they saying _desert_ island or _deserted_ island? Because they’re very different things. Neither mutually inclusive or exclusive.”

Fitz considered her question very seriously. “I don’t know which is worse. Ours is deserted but at least it’s got trees and things. Whereas a desert island could have other people. Though why there would be inhabitants on a desert island, with no food, no water, I don’t know.”

“So castaways are definitely on deserted islands, possibly on desert islands as well.”

They both nodded, as if that was all that needed to be said.

That night, after she’d convinced Fitz she wasn’t concussed and could safely sleep, after he’d rigged the radio to start sending a distress signal, after she’d forced him to take the first night on the cot, she smiled to herself in the darkness of the pod. She’d just imagined being stranded with Agent May or Agent Ward and asking _them_ if they thought it was desert or deserted. It really was quite fortunate she’d washed up with Fitz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a weird little thing I've had kicking around since I went to Madagascar (!!) last week. I only expect to have 3-4 chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

Fitz kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut for a full minute after he woke up. Maybe it had all been a dream. No one _actually_ got washed up on a deserted island with their best-friend-turned-hopelessly-unrequited love. Surely when he looked around he’d find himself safely tucked into his tiny bed on the Bus with Skye playing music too loudly from just over the divider. Hell, he’d even be happy to find himself back at the ratty motel where they’d been camping out after Hydra had so rudely interrupted their lives. Even Agent Triplett’s disingenuous attempts to be nice to him would be better than this.

He cracked an eye open and groaned.

“Yes, we’re still here,” Jemma called from outside the med pod.

He pushed himself up with his good hand and winced: he’d not been in able to brush his teeth, wash his face, or change his clothes last night, for obvious reasons, and he felt about as happy about that situation as he had the few times he’d gotten positively black-out blasted at the Academy.

He checked that the radio was still beeping out its sad little distress signal, then joined Jemma outside, where she was trying to get some of the field rations to attach to the hook of her fishing rod without crumbling.

“Morning!” she chirped, with the positivity that Fitz knew was as much for him as for her. “Sleep well?”

“’Bout as well as could be expected. You?”

“I thought the waves were quite soothing, actually.” At Fitz’s skeptical look, she shrugged. “The little things, yeah? At least we’re together.”

A feeling like liquid gold rushed through Fitz’s torso. He fought to keep his teasing smile on his face. “We’ll see how long you’re happy about that. Going fishing?”

“Maybe later.” Jemma set the pole aside. “Doubt it’ll work anyway. I was thinking, I’m sure you were absolutely thorough yesterday, but we should really divide the island between us and do one more sweep. Not because I don’t trust your findings,” she rushed to say, as Fitz opened his mouth. “When scientists try to reproduce an experiment, it’s not because they doubt the leaders of the original experiment. It’s just good practice.”

“No, no, I get it,” Fitz assured her. Since he’d first noticed his bloody crush on her, he’d become all too aware of how damn _decent_ Jemma was, always trying to care for everyone else. She wasn’t always very good at it, but the least he could do was lend a hand. “Makes sense.”

“Great,” she said, smiling incandescently at him. “You take the west side, I’ll do east.”

“And east is…?”

“That way,” she sighed, shoving him towards the right.

 

 

 

As much as he wanted to have missed something the day before, Fitz didn’t find anything in his exploration of the east side of the island. He peered up into trees and bent to inspect bushes and even scraped a bit into the sand to look for signs of water underground. But within a few hours he’d trod every inch of the east side with nothing to show for it.

Disheartened and feeling a bit groggy from hunger and thirst, he traipsed back the way he’d come. He understood and respected Jemma’s proposal that they focus on survival before moving on to rescue attempts, but there was clearly nothing here to keep them alive, and they needed to get off the island as quickly as possible.

Just short of the beach, Fitz stumbled and had to catch himself on a coconut tree. His legs were trembling.

“Jemma?” he tried to call, but it came out a croak.

The tree split and waved in front of him, two trunks from one base. Fitz blinked rapidly, trying to remember where he’d been going. The beach. It was just there, he could see it – he couldn’t remember why it was important to get there, but he needed to –

He made it just a few more steps before he collapsed face-first into the sand and lost consciousness.

 

 

“Shh, Fitz, it’s alright, I’m here…”

His tongue felt like cotton, his lips like they were about to split open and bleed down his chin.

“You can tell me later…”

Tell who what?

“Jemma?” he rasped.

“Hey,” she breathed, coming into focus just inches above him. “There you are.”

“What—”

“You passed out,” she said grimly, wiping his forehead with a wet cloth. When she removed it to soak it again, he realized she’d ripped the sleeves of her top to make rags. “You’re terribly dehydrated.”

He’d gathered as much, from trying to run his parched tongue over his parched lips just for the illusion of moisture. “It’s only been two days.”

“Only takes three to seven for a human to die of thirst—”

“ _Jemma!_ ”

“Sorry.” She did look very concerned, he thought, her forehead all bunched up. Her lips were dry and chapped too – nope, best not look there. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Fitz,” she admitted, as she wiped over his cheeks and down his neck, making him shiver a bit with pleasure. “There are rehydration salts in the med kits but we’d need fresh water for those to have any worth. I’m using sea water just to cool you down, and that’s not really the best idea either. While you were out I cobbled together a sort of desalination device, but it’s so rudimentary this is all that passed through in an hour.”

She held up a medicine vial which she’d emptied. At the bottom was a few centimeters of luscious, tantalizing, clear water.

Fitz licked his lips again, wincing as they stung. He imagined the water sliding down his throat…

“You should take it,” he managed. “You’re obviously the hardier of the two of us, doesn’t make sense for us both to die—”

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Jemma muttered, and she cupped the side of his face with one hand to hold him in place as she brought the vial to his lips. “Be a good boy and drink your water.”

He nearly choked on it from laughing at her. She tilted his chin back to help him swallow.

“Feel better?” she asked gently, squeezing his arm.

“Did I drink it? Doesn’t feel like I drank it,” he grumbled. She rolled her eyes and turned away to pick up her wet rag again. Fitz pressed a lingering drop between his lips. “Sorry I’m such a bother,” he said. She glanced up at him with a funny look. “It’s just like at the Academy, when you had to take care of me because I was sick. I know it’s a nuisance.”

“I didn’t _have_ to take care of you,” she chuckled, sponging behind his ears and along his hairline. “You would always lock yourself away and pretend like you were fine but meanwhile you were absolutely miserable and honestly, what would your mum have said if I’d left you alone?”

“Still.” He rubbed his knuckles against her knee where it pressed against his side. “I’m sure I drove you nuts.”

Jemma gasped and dropped the rag over Fitz’s face. He spluttered, somewhere between suffocating and drowning.

“Wot the _hell_ —”

“Nuts! Fitz, that’s it!” Jemma cried, bounding up, then doubling over to kiss his forehead. “ _Nuts_!” And she darted for the door.

“Where are you going?” he yelled, best he could with every part of his insides more dried-out than a raisin. “What if something comes to eat me while I’m weak and defenseless? What if there are smoke monsters or – or – land sharks??”

“Your monkeys will protect you!”

“Some best friend she is,” Fitz muttered to the empty med pod, sitting up gingerly. “She wouldn’t know a cute primate if it mooned her with its bright blue arse.”

Less than five minutes later, Jemma came hurtling back into the entrance, arms full.

Fitz gaped, and then let out something between a whoop and a laugh.

“Jemma, you’re a genius. Honestly, you’re brilliant. Smartest person I know.”

“Thanks, Fitz,” Jemma beamed, handing him a coconut. “Don’t know why we didn’t think of this earlier. These are just the ones I could scavenge from the ground. Tried climbing a tree – _not_ easy.”

She’d cracked them open against some rocks and Fitz gleefully broke his in half, catching some of the water that escaped on his grateful tongue. He moaned.

“That good?” Jemma smirked, flushed from her run and success.

“God, Jemma, it’s – drink yours, it’s _divine_ —”

They drank the coconut water until it ran down their chins, then scraped out the flesh and ate it all. Jemma did a bit of a shimmy with delight at finally having food.

Then they had a second coconut. And a third. They had more until their stomachs ached and Jemma started burping.

The fifth coconut smelled a bit different, but Fitz was too enraptured to question it, so he took a sip and promptly spat it out.

“Oh, no, that’s not good,” he spluttered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Give it here.” Jemma tasted it as well, a bit more gingerly than he had, and her face screwed up a bit, but then her eyes widened and she took a long swig.

“Watch it!” he gasped, grabbing her wrist. “You’ll poison yourself.”

Jemma’s eyes were shining with a familiar wildness. “It’s not gone bad, Fitz! It’s old, and it’s _fermented!_ ”

“As in—”

“As in,” she said slowly, raising her eyebrows and extending the coconut to him ceremoniously, “we can get _drunk_ off of it.”

“Best. Marooning. _Ever_.”

Several hours later, they were sprawled under the first stars, Jemma making sand angels as Fitz transposed “Drink Up Me Hearties Yo Ho” into several different keys. They were both decidedly, blissfully tipsy.

“You know what,” Fitz said suddenly, lolling his head over and getting an eyeful of sand.

“What?” Jemma responded, very seriously, still moving her legs and arms in a horizontal jumping jack.

“There’s no one I’d rather be stuck on a deserted island with than you, Simmons.”

“Aww, Fitz,” she clucked, catching his hand in hers.

Her gaze, already a bit fuzzy from the intoxication, softened as she looked at his face. She bit her lip, seeming to think for a moment –

And then Fitz snorted.

“I just remembered,” he explained, between renewed laughter, “back at Providence, when we were doing that examination thing and Koenig asked what’d be in the box on the sand – I said you. And now look where we are.”

“So this is all _your_ fault!” Jemma kicked sand over his ankles. “You willed this whole situation into existence.”

For a brief moment Fitz thought about pointing out that it was really Ward’s fault, and maybe they were all to blame for trusting him – but that was a trauma to work out after they were rescued.

Instead he tugged on her hand a little. “What’d you say? About the box?”

Jemma giggled. “It’s ridiculous. Though it’d be very helpful now, come to think of it.”

“Come on, what was it?” Fitz urged, already laughing with her.

Stilling her expression to one of absolute sincerity, she intoned, “The TARDIS.”

Their collective laughter filled the night air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I don't think coconuts naturally ferment, at least not enough to be alcoholic. But just run with it ;) It was either that or straight-up co-opting the Pirates scene of finding old rum hidden underground.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any science is a total guess/lie/fabrication

Between the nutrition and hydration of the coconuts and Jemma’s intense ministrations, Fitz recovered quickly. Aside from his arm, he was in good physical form and even seemed more positive than when they’d first been stranded. He took to the lighter tasks Jemma allowed him – preparing the meals, maintaining the fire, cleaning the medpod -- with a slight smile and occasional humming. When he caught her looking, he’d bobble his head comically side to side, seemingly just to make her laugh. He came and supported her every time she tried her hand at fishing: the pole she’d made wasn’t very sturdy, and anything larger than a kilogram threatened to snap the whole thing, but after several hours of splashing and shouting and griping and Fitz driving the fish towards her, she’d managed to hook a few fish for easily their best meal so far.

At the moment, Fitz was writing “SOS” and “HELP” on the beach with coconut shells and fronds. As Jemma watched, a crab scuttled close to his bare foot and he yelped, jumping back, set to scurry to the safety of the medpod. Then, seeming to realize the crab would make a far better meal than yet more coconut flesh, Fitz about-faced, nearly fell on his face as his foot skid on the sand, and went running after the crab, trying to grab it without letting it grab him. When he got it, he called for Jemma, waving his catch triumphantly for her to see, then promptly dropped it as it pinched him.

All in all, Jemma was inordinately proud of the both of them and how well they were surviving in these trying circumstances. Their systems and divisions of labor worked well. There was even a certain quaint domesticity to everything, which was probably what Fitz had been afraid of when they’d landed and she’d started laying out plans.

Well. Maybe _afraid_ wasn’t quite the right word, in view of what he’d said while dehydrated.

She hadn’t mentioned it to Fitz because he’d be mortified, and he was probably just mumbling nonsense and she’d feel silly if she brought it up and then he laughed at her, but before he’d come to, when he’d been shaky and pale and she’d been waiting for the seawater to desalinate, he’d started _talking_.

 

 

The words had been slurred and quiet; she’d had to nearly press her ear to his lips to hear. His eyes rolled behind his eyelids but he never opened them, making her fairly sure he was still only semi-conscious, maybe dreaming or hallucinating.

“Jemma,” he had murmured, voice rasping.

“Save your breath, Fitz,” she’d pleaded, smoothing a hand over his chest.  

“I couldn’t find the courage to tell you—”

“I’m sure I’ll forgive you, whatever it is you’ve done—”

“You’re m’ best friend, Jemma.”

Jemma had squeezed her eyes shut. Fitz needed her to not break down. He needed her to stay calm and construct a desalination system and make water to keep him alive.

“I know, Fitz,” she whispered.

“But you’re – you’re so much more than that—”

Jemma had stifled a gasp with the back of her hand.

“I should’ve told you months ago, when I first figured it out, but… you know me, I’m a coward.”

“You’re not,” Jemma said firmly, choosing to focus on everything he was saying except the _you’re so much more than that_ part. “You’re incredibly brave, Fitz, I know I never say that to you because it’d just go to your head, but—”

Fitz’s face clenched and his fist curled around the edge of the cot. He was trembling so much. “I’m scared, Jemma.”

“Shh, Fitz, it’s alright, I’m here…”

“And I had to tell you—”

“You can tell me later…”

 

And then he’d woken up, and she’d acted like nothing had happened. Her best friend had nearly died and told her she was _more than that_ , how was she supposed to process that?

Then he’d gone and told her that he’d chosen her, for Koenig’s little thought experiment, and now she felt flustered and a tad guilty for not having done the same.

But the strangest part of it all was that now she was thinking about kissing him. What it’d be like, whether he’d touch her hair or her shoulder or her face, if he’d whisper her name just before their lips touched.

She’d certainly never thought about _that_ before.

Of course, _more than that_ could mean “best friends for life” or “the best friend I’ll ever have” or “platonic soulmate” or “like a sister to me”, but _her_ mind had gone straight to kissing. Which was rather interesting, really.

 

 

While Fitz puttered about like a house husband, Jemma directed her energy and muddled emotions to mastering the coconut trees. They collected some on the ground, but those that had fallen were often overripe by the time they got to them, and as much fun as being tipsy on a tropical beach was, they really did need a steady supply of food and water. Fitz being in no state to climb, Jemma got up early on their fourth day and spent the entire morning trying to shimmy her way up the rough, dauntingly vertical trunks.

Fitz showed up when the sun was overhead to call her back for lunch. “Made it up yet?”

“Not as easy as it looks,” Jemma grunted, sliding down and wincing at the burn on her hands and feet. “They’re so smooth, there’s no friction.”

“Come and eat and you can try again in the afternoon,” he shrugged.

But Jemma wasn’t about to be beaten by a slippery plant, however fascinating she’d normally find everything about it. She had blisters on her palms and scrapes on her knees and bruises on her arse from falling from the tree a few (dozen) times, but she was _close_. She was sure of it.

“Assess my position, would you?” she panted, straddling the tree again and looking to Fitz. “Let me know if you think I can adjust it to better distribute my weight.”

“Um – that looks good, yeah,” Fitz muttered, cheeks a bit pink.

Jemma frowned. “What?”

“Nothing. Your, um—Your arms—”

“What? Should I crooked my elbows more?” she pressed, demonstrating. “I can’t hang here all day, Fitz, I’m not a koala.”

“It’s not that, it’s just – your arms look -- nice,” he finished lamely, and immediately seemed confused why he’d said it.

“Nice,” Jemma repeated.

“Yep. That’s all. I’ll, uh, go check on the – the food, and you just come whenever you’ve – finished with that.” And he bolted for the beach.

Jemma dropped her feet back to the sand and looked down at her own arms. _Nice_? They’d only been here a few days, her muscle tone hadn’t had time to change. She supposed in the position she’d just held her biceps and forearms might’ve been accented a bit, especially with the sheen of a hard morning’s sweat. And they were both getting a touch tan, as much as two pasty, freckle-prone Brits could. But still – _nice_? What a strange body part for Fitz to suddenly find appealing.

“Had to go and make everything so confusing,” she sighed, and returned to climbing.

She joined Fitz for lunch twenty minutes later, one fresh-off-the-tree coconut in each palm.

 

 

That afternoon, needing a moment alone and skin crawling from wearing the same dirty, sweat-crusted clothes since Cuba, Jemma wandered out of sight of the medpod and stripped naked. She allowed herself a moment to breathe in the sunlight before she knelt and started washing her clothes in the seawater. She wished – for the thousandth time – that this island had miraculously had a fresh-water pool, a small waterfall, even just a bubbling spring. What she wouldn’t give for her clothes to _not_ smell like salt.

She laid the clothes out to dry on some grass above the beach and returned to the water to wash herself. She groaned a bit as she dumped water over her head, working it into her grateful hair. She’d been right not to do this – even clothed – near Fitz: she imagined she looked and sounded more pornographic than either of them could handle at this point.

After cleaning herself as best she could, she settled onto the grass next to her clothes. There was something very delicious about the feeling of the sun on every inch of her body, on parts that normally never saw day.

She’d told Fitz where she was going and what she’d be doing, to make sure he wouldn’t follow her, but as the heat dried and warmed her skin, she closed her eyes and imagined him coming anyway. She grinned, imagining his blush as his eyes would rake her body. To her surprise, that idea wasn’t in the least bit confusing – just appealing.

“Maybe I should make a coconut bra,” she said out loud.


	4. Chapter 4

“What’ll you do first?”

Jemma chewed the fried fish contemplatively. “Take a shower.”

Fitz snorted and nodded. “You do smell rather ripe.”

“Ripeness is a good quality in most plant species!” she retorted.

They’d finally gotten their survival systems so down pat that they’d been spending the last six hours or so focused solely on getting off the island. Fitz had walked around the entire island, laying out more stone messages on the sand; Jemma had gathered the driest palm leaves and coconut husks she could find and started a massive fire on the beach. It was a risk, as if the fire caught the standing trees, it could take away their most reliable source of food and water, but it could also be their best shot at freedom.

“I think I’ll have a big bowl of ravioli,” Fitz decided, continuing with their slightly sadistic game of after-island dreams. “Go somewhere with bottomless pasta.”

“That’s called a buffet, Fitz.”

“Or my mum’s.” He smiled dreamily. “Once I tell her how I’ve starved and suffered, she’ll fatten me up.”

“Starved and suffered?” Jemma laughed. Fitz ducked to avoid the swipe of the fish head she was holding. “We haven’t even been here long enough to lose weight. Leave it to you to think only of food.”

“But if you had to choose,” Fitz pressed, because he’d realized sometime recently that as much as he liked arguing with Jemma and as much as he savored the way she laughed at him, he also liked that wistful look she got when she was thinking. “If you had to choose the first thing you’ll eat when we get back, what would it be?”

Her eyes fluttered shut as she smiled. “Chocolate cake. With three layers and really thick frosting that’ll make me sick.”

“Come to Scotland,” he suggested, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “My mum’s an amazing baker as well. She’s always wanted to meet you.”

“It’s a bit mad that we’ve never met each other’s families, isn’t it?” Jemma mused. “Close as we are.”

“Yeah.”

Fitz hesitated, then reached for Jemma’s hand, so close to his thigh, but she stood up at just that moment and he had to topple over in the other direction to over-correct and keep himself from awkwardly grabbing her ankle. She looked down at him. “You okay?”

“Brilliant,” Fitz muttered, shaking the sand out of his ear.

“I’m going to add more kindling to the fire. If you want to look for some of those fermented coconuts, they might add a nice explosive factor to it, drive the flames up a bit.”

Just when he always thought they were having a _moment_ , she always went back to normal. Then again, his behavior could probably be viewed the same way.

He sighed and stood up, collecting the remnants of their lunch to use as bait later. Honestly, Jemma was a saint just for putting up with him on this island. She was a brilliant friend – the best. It’d be silly to push that.

He was headed up the dunes to look for old coconuts when he heard something in the distance.

The roaring bonfire a few hundred meters away was so loud it’d nearly obscured the sound. It was coming from – northwest, he determined, much more quickly than he’d have been able to just five days before.

Turning in that direction, he shaded his eyes. The surface of the sea shimmered in the midday sun and through the warped air above the flames.

But there, just above the horizon, speeding towards them –

“JEMMA!”

She couldn’t hear him, of course, over that fire. Fitz took off across the sand to her, nearly tripping a half dozen times. Jemma was throwing palm fronds onto the fire and scurrying back as they went up with sharp pops.

Fitz grabbed her wrist and tugged her away from the fire. Her skin was soaked in sweat from being so close to the heat.

“THEY’RE HERE!”

“What?” Jemma shouted, leaning towards him.

“THEY’RE HERE! WE’RE SAVED!”

Fitz gestured frantically towards the plane.

Jemma gasped and grasped both of Fitz’s biceps. “Fitz!”

“I know!” he cried.

“We’re saved!”

“I know!”

Jemma let out a squeal of delight and started jumping up and down. Fitz tried to join her but his broken arm protested. Jemma, of course, noticed, and stopped celebrating with a laugh, throwing her arms around him instead.

“We did it, Fitz!” she shouted into his ear. “We survived the hell out of this island!”

Fitz pulled back to look out at the island. “Science, biatch!” he yelled at it.

The plane – definitely a SHIELD model -- was just a half mile or so offshore now. Jemma couldn’t seem to stop laughing, leaning into him, holding onto his shoulders. She didn’t even seem to mind his hands on her waist. In fact, she was looking at him with some kind of glowing affection. Not at their rescuers, not at the fire that had probably been their savior – at _him_. Like he was what mattered in that moment.

“Jemma,” he whispered, though she probably couldn’t hear it, and he caught her cheek and leaned in.

Jemma jerked backwards, out of his grip.

Fitz’s eyes burned. His hand had left an ashen mark in the sweat on her cheek. Jemma looked immensely sad, and he knew instantly that it was exactly as he’d feared.

“Jemma, I’m so sorr—”

“Let’s go get rescued,” she said firmly, and she set off down the beach towards where the plane was landing.

 

 

“Took you long enough,” Fitz snapped at Skye as he boarded the jet.

“Hey, how about a little gratitude? We’ve been combing the ocean for you two for most of a week!”

“Couldn’t have managed it about, oh, an hour earlier?” he muttered, dropping into one of the seats. Jemma was already sitting up with May in the cockpit – only two seats up there, so she wouldn’t have to talk to him.

“Damn,” Skye whistled, giving May the all-clear. “What happened on that island? I know that too much time with a person can make you hate them, but – I always thought you two were unnaturally immune to that normal human being social crap.”

Fitz shook his head. “It’s not that.” He didn’t want anyone thinking he _hated_ Jemma – least of all Jemma herself. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t feel the same way. “It’s not that at all.”

 

 

Between the medical checkups, the saline IVs, the slow reintroduction to a variety of foods, the debrief on their experiences and the briefing on everything that had happened while they were gone, Fitz and Simmons didn’t have a moment alone – together or apart – for hours. It was nearly midnight by the time Fitz was released to go back to his new bunk on this unfamiliar base that Koenig called The Playground.

Fitz wanted a hot shower, but he didn’t feel he had the strength to try to make it work with his newly set cast just yet. So he changed – clean clothes, at last – and was about to take some medicine to help him sleep when someone knocked.

He knew it’d be her. Once, when they were younger, when they hadn’t seen each other nearly die so many times, they probably wouldn’t have talked about it. But Jemma had changed a lot since they’d joined the team, and her hardened bravery extended to her friendships, apparently.

“May I come in?”

Fitz stepped aside to let her pass. “You here to sign my cast?”

“Don’t know if that’s permitted under SHIELD regulations.” She smiled at him, such a seemingly normal expression, and sat on his bed. “But I’ll do it anyway.”

He sat next to her, an appropriate distance away, and held his arm steady as she drew something with the marker he’d offered. When she finished, he frowned at it.

“They’re monkeys,” Jemma explained, gently supporting his elbow so he could see it properly. “They’re drunk on coconuts.”

“Awww,” Fitz chuckled. “Now I’m sad I’ll have to give this up in a few weeks.”

“I can draw it again for you on a napkin or something.” Jemma fiddled with the marker in her lap, obviously building up to exactly the conversation he’d been dreading. “Fitz, I think I haven’t been very clear. I think you misunderstood something.”

“Jemma, you don’t—” He felt so small, thinking that he’d made her so uncomfortable she felt the need to set things straight. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I wanted to kiss you,” Jemma blurted out.

“C-come again?”

“I wanted to kiss you, back on the beach,” she explained more carefully, blushing under her sunburn. “When you were – that _is_ what you were going to do, wasn’t it? Kiss me? Please tell me it and I’m not making a total fool of myself—”

“No, it is, it is, I was going to – that’s what I was – But you—”

“I know,” she interrupted guiltily. “I know what I did, how I reacted. But it wasn’t because I didn’t like the idea very much.”

“So,” Fitz said slowly, “you _do_ like the idea?”

“Very much. I just – didn’t want it to be a ‘we’re the last two people on earth’ sort of scenario. If I was going to kiss you, I – I wanted to be clear. And I couldn’t be sure of your feelings, despite what you said while unconscious.”

Oh _bloody_ hell. “What I – What did I say?” Fitz hoped the panic in his voice wasn’t making her want to kiss him any less.

“Something about me being _more_ , and you’d felt that way for months, and you couldn’t find the courage to tell me—”

“Oh.” Fitz gulped. “That.” So, apparently, when he was near death, his stupid bird brain chose to recite one of the versions of the confessional speech he sometimes practiced in front of the bathroom mirror.

“But I – I didn’t want to hold you to that,” Jemma assured him. “You were dazed, and dehydrated—”

Fitz was starting to catch up to the conversation – to understand that Jemma actually _did_ feel the same way. “I may not remember it, and I may not have been very clearheaded, but I meant everything I said,” he cut her off fervently.

“Brilliant,” Jemma breathed, and she was looking at him again with that incandescent affection he’d noticed on the beach. “Um – what do you think we should do about it?”

“Well…” Fitz shift closer to her, looping his un-casted arm around her back and settling his hand on the mattress next to her. He could feel her inhale as he nuzzled her cheek. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t brushed my teeth in six days—”

“Oooh, sexy,” Jemma laughed.

“And I’ve got the body odor of a chimpanzee at a mud convention—”

“Talk _dirty_ to me,” Jemma snorted. “Get it? Dirty?”

“Forget it, I’m out!” Fitz cried, trying to move away from her. “I want to go back to the island! Alone!”

But he was laughing when she kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zee End


End file.
